And the Angels Sing
by Kate Browne
Summary: Hogan and his men work with a new acquaintance, spy on a Vichy collaborator making super rockers, and try and stop Maurice Dubois' desire for revenge. That last could see them all dead.
1. Default Chapter

**And the Angels Sing****PRIVATE **

It was a warm summer evening in southern Germany. The sky glowed in dusky pinks and oranges. The twilight gave even the somber confines of Stalag 13 a cheery, light ambiance. Or at least thought Col. Robert Hogan, senior POW, as he took a deep drag on a cigarette and sat down outside his barracks to read his latest sandalwood-scented letter from Miri. She'd written on average about once every two weeks since she'd returned to Britain, and over the course of their correspondence, he'd seen her wildly mercurial personality settle down. She'd really shown herself to him—well, as much as the censors would allow--and he'd returned her trust, letting down barriers he seldom lowered. Their flow of mutual affection had become a real source of joy for him, and he eagerly read this epistle in the dwindling light.

So engrossed was he in the letter--full of local and family news, literary, musical, and travel interests, not to mention intimate emotions--that he failed to notice Sgt. Hans Schultz sidle up to him. "You're up late, Colonel. And you know you shouldn't be outside after lights out."

Hogan jumped at the sergeant's words, almost dropping his cigarette. "Good grief, Schultz. You took six months off my life." Hand and letter were pressed against his heart.

"I'm sorry, Colonel Hogan. I didn't mean to startle you." Schultz spied the letter and caught a whiff of it as the flyer finished reading it. "Ah, your lady friend in England. She has such nice perfume." He closed his eyes in appreciation.

Hogan smiled fondly. "She sure does. And what I would like best is to smell it on her--in person." He sighed before continuing. "It's on nights like this that I really miss the front porch swing. I'd be sitting there, swinging gently, Miri curled up next to me, head resting on my shoulder...."

Schultz interrupted Hogan's gentle fantasy. "You're in love, Colonel Hogan, but you need to be in the barracks. Go dream about your lady in your bunk."

Punctured, Hogan groused as he ground out his cigarette. "Schultz, you're a spoilsport."

"No, the Big Shot has been on my case. I would like him off. So, please, be a good boy, and go to bed, colonel?"

"What's up with the kommandant?" This was bad news. Light thoughts of love and summer disappeared.

"How should I know?"

"Oh, come, you know everything in this camp." He gave the sergeant an impish grin.

"No, no, no!" he whined. "Please go inside now. Dream about your lady friend. It will make me happier."

"Okay, Schultz. Good night." Though he kept it cordial, he was worried. They had an escape in progress. This may have been their 914th, according to Newkirk's reckoning, but that didn't change the fact that they had 5 guys in the tunnels. This was no time for Klink to get regulation happy. He'd have to find out what was going on--tomorrow. As Hogan tiptoed through the barracks, he mumbled to his sleeping men, "How can you guys sleep on such a glorious evening?"

HH HH HH

The next morning, Hogan sauntered into Klink's office. Fraulein Hilda, the gorgeous blonde secretary, typed furiously. Hogan frowned. At that rate, she'd break a fingernail. Sure enough, Hilda stopped suddenly and stuck a finger in her mouth.

"Can I kiss it and make it better, Hilda?" he offered affectionately.

She looked up at him and glared. "No, thank you. I've too much work, courtesy of Herr Kommandant, to have time for your schemes." She sounded more put upon than hurt.

"What's going on, Hilda? Has the Rusted Eagle been swooping down on you?"

"General Burkhalter called yesterday to tell Herr Kommandant that he's bringing a big shot industrialist here tomorrow."

The American cocked his head and wiggled his nose as he sat on the edge of her desk. "So that's why everything is by the book."

"Yes. I've six months' worth of reports to type up. Aagh."

"Well, this should cheer you up." Hogan pulled 3 pairs of nylons out of his jacket pocket and handed them to her. "Consider it a down payment on what I owe you."

She took the stockings but looked suspiciously at him. "To what do I owe this sudden repayment?"

He gave her a brilliant smile. "I actually have them. For once. And so, I thought I'd pass them on before I forgot. Again."

The explanation seemed to allay her suspicions, but if Big Mouth Schultz said anything about Miriam, well, Hilda could become a problem. And in fact, Miriam was the real reason he was settling up with the secretary.

"So, is he in?"

"Not to you. He left specific instructions not to let you in."

Hogan got off the desk and marched over to the door. "We'll see about that!" With jovial defiance, he entered Klink's office where he breezily greeted the kommandant.

Col. Wilhelm Klink, monocle firmly planted in the left eye, looked up from the paperwork piled high on his desk. "I don't have time for your nonsense, Hogan. Dis-missed!"

"Is that any way to talk on such a beautiful summer day? Besides, you should be excited about such an important visitor coming."

Klink eyed him with thinly veiled hostility. "What do you know about that?'

"Well...."

"Never mind. All prisoners will be confined to barracks after this evening's roll call. No exceptions, Hogan." There was an unusual nervous snap to Klink's voice.

"Who is this bigwig?" The American tried for a cigar but nearly lost a finger instead. Making innocent eyes at the camp commander, he muttered, "This guy must be really important to get you so bent out of shape."

"Jean-Marie Auverne is an important Vichy industrialist who is relocating his factory to this area."

"Yeah, well, with the Allies pushing toward Paris, who could blame him?" Hogan chuckled to himself. "Of course, putting a factory here will only give the Allies something new to bomb."

Klink wiped any humor from the situation. "Colonel Hogan, for your impudence, you're confined to barracks for 30 days. Dis-missed!"

Returning the salute, Hogan left, disgruntled but informed.

He met Sgt. James Kinchloe on the way back to the barracks. "Get on the horn to London and ask them for everything they know about Jean-Marie Auverne."

"Nice work, colonel."

"Well, it cost. Klink's confined me to barracks for 30 days. Right in the middle of summer. Geez!"

"What happened?"

"Oh, I ran my mouth, and Old Blood and Guts was in no mood for it."

Their conversation ended as they entered the barracks. Kinch went to the radio room while Hogan laid his hands on Cpl. Louis Lebeau's shoulders. "What's for dinner?"

"Salade Niçoise and roast chicken with 40 cloves of garlic."

"Yum. And what do you know about Jean-Marie Auverne?" A spate of rapid-fire French flew from LeBeau. Hogan only caught 'sale cochon' but assumed the rest was in the same general vein. "En anglais, Louis. And something useful, not envenomed."

"Auverne is from Paris, is very tight with Pierre Laval, runs a large munitions works, and operates on the black market. That's all I can tell you, mon colonel, except that General DeGaulle would like him shot as a traitor."

"We could arrange that for the good general," commented Peter Newkirk from behind his latest edition of The Times. It was only 3 months old.

LeBeau looked up at his mate, shaking his head. "I don't think you quite understand how we French feel about Vichy collaborators."

Cutting off the cross-Channel rivalry before it could flare up again, Hogan asked, "Anything else?"

"Oh, and he's something of a dilettante."

"What do you mean 'dilettante'? What does he do? Dabble in oils?"

"No. He collects singers. He likes to play patron."

Kinchloe was suddenly at Hogan's elbow. "London knows all about Auverne's plans. They're sending an agent in specifically to deal with him, and she'll make contact with us sometime in the next 48 hours."

"She?" asked Hogan. He was seized with an unpleasant, sneaking suspicion.

Kinch looked dumfounded. "Yes, sir, she. What's wrong with that?"

He handed the orders to Hogan who read the rest, crumpled up the message, and began swearing under his breath. "Dammit!" He headed off for the radio room, Kinch in bewildered tow. Not ten minutes later they came back up, Hogan cursing, "Damn, damn, damn, damn!" as he went to his office and slammed the door behind him.

HH HH HH

Puzzled looks abounded. Sgt. Andrew Carter looked at his fellow sergeant and asked, "What gives, Kinch?"

"Major Broadbent rides again."

"Parbleu! Just what we need! Mme. Defarge!"

Kinchloe tapped LeBeau on the shoulder. "And just what makes her Mme. Defarge?"

Before LeBeau could respond, Carter cut in. "Maybe she doesn't even knit." Newkirk tipped Carter's cap into his face, but the demolitions expert was undaunted. "I wonder if the colonel's reaction has anything to do with those perfumed letters he's been getting on a regular basis?"

On one hand, the men around Carter were shocked. Colonel Hogan, for all his informal command style and genuine regard for his men, was an intensely private man--one who guarded that privacy fiercely. He'd nearly bitten off Newkirk's head when the latter had finally questioned him on one of his outrageous sob stories involving his mother. While they'd learned the colonel was the oldest of five children and that his mother really was a widow--since 1930--they'd all decided that the price for asking was too high. On the other hand, Hogan's behavior made it clear he liked the ladies, and given he was a colonel, a pilot, and a bachelor, that was pretty normal. And God knew they'd gently and not so gently teased him about Fraulein Hilda or lipstick on his face. But if he were really in love? They'd have to tread carefully.

Kinchloe asked Carter directly, "How do you know about these letters?"

"They were sitting on his desk, all tied up with blue ribbon. I saw them when I was cutting his hair. I smelled something different in the air, and asked what it was. Colonel Hogan said it was sandalwood. I just assumed it came from the letters." Carter craned his head forward. "The colonel was in a really good mood, too. He didn't even yell at me when I nicked his ear." He looked round at the guys, silently defending the truth of it.

Newkirk took a deep breath before commenting, "Well, whatever's goin' on, we'd better not let 'im 'ear us making any comments about 'er. Just in case." He looked meaningfully at LeBeau. "None of your 'Mme. Defarge' cracks, if you please."

Carter chimed in seriously. "Yeah, we could be talking about the future Mrs. Hogan."

"Mon Dieu! I hope not."

"Or we could be making erroneous assumptions and jumping to conclusions." Kinchloe shook his head

HH HH HH

The bright afternoon sun made for warm and cheerful working conditions, even if the prisoners didn't particularly care for the repairing the road. At the least, it did get them out of camp. Newkirk stopped and leaned on his shovel. He'd barely broken a sweat. One of the guards, Corporal Langenscheits, came over and ordered him back to work.

"In a minute, mate. Can't you see, I'm takin' in the scenery?"

He'd originally meant the woods around them, but just then a lovely young fraulein hove into view. He gave a loud wolf whistle, turning Langensheits' attention from his goldbricking. The German corporal's eyes nearly popped as the lady approached.

The young lady--she couldn't have been more than 25--wore a summery green linen dress, strappy brown sandals, and a wide, floppy, straw hat that hid her hair. A picnic basket dangled from one hand. All the men stopped work to frankly admire her. She smiled broadly at them as she strolled by. Suddenly, she seemed to crumple. Colonel Hogan, closest to her, saw the ankle turn and quickly strode over to catch her before she fell.

As he put his arms around her, pulling her toward him, a heady whiff of sandalwood assaulted his nose. The fraulein, who seemed positively tiny to Hogan, turned dark, luminous eyes up to his face. Her quick wink startled him as much, if not more, than the swell and pressure of her linen-covered breasts against his bare arm. As soon as she righted herself, he released her.

"Danke, mein Herr," she said softly, flushing slightly.

Hogan tipped his cap, bowing slightly from the waist. "Colonel Robert Hogan, at your service, meine Fraulein," he responded formally.

Smiling, she waved at him and his men as she went on her way.

He watched her retreating back, and when he was sure she was out of earshot, he spat, "Brazen little hussy," and read the note she'd left in his rolled up sleeve. His face settled into angry lines.

HH HH HH

Carter and Newkirk had watched the interaction between their colonel and the fraulein, smiling with knowing amusement, but the colonel's comment had shocked them. When their inaction caught his eye, they bent to their work with a will. After Hogan had walked on, Carter whispered to Newkirk, "Have you ever seen the colonel so angry?'

"No, mate, I 'aven't, and I ain't about to ask, neither."

"You don't suppose that woman was Major Broadbent, do you?"

"Wot! Walkin' out in broad daylight, right in front of God and the Gerrys? Don't be daft, Andrew. Even _she's_ not that crazy."

"Well, you know what Kipling said: Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun."

Gray-blue eyes rolled upwards. "Oh, leave off."

HH HH HH

That night, while his men finished processing their 5 escapees and getting them out via Schnitzer's dog truck, Hogan went out to meet his contact. He practically had to creep and crawl in the bushes to avoid Wehrmacht patrols. In the process, he missed seeing Miriam Broadbent leaning against a fir tree, virtually invisible in her black attire.

She stepped out from the branches, and said, in her best Marlene Dietrich voice, "Halt, soldier." Hogan whirled around, pistol drawn. She didn't blink. "Is that any way to greet your own Lili Marlene?"

He waggled his eyebrows while giving a slight toss of his head. A twig snapped somewhere, forcing them to crouch down behind a bush. Given the opportunity afforded by the patrol, Miri threw her arms around Hogan's neck and kissed him—deeply. His arms encircled her waist, pulled her closer to him, and overbalanced them. Still in their tight embrace, they fell into the cool grass, invisible to most and oblivious to all. When they came up for air, the patrol was long gone.

Rather breathlessly, Hogan remarked, "We'd best not hang around here."

Equally winded, she merely nodded in agreement.

The walk back to Stalag 13 allowed Hogan's head to clear. Once they were in the safe, well-lit confines of the tunnel-system, he angrily opened up on her. "Just what the devil was that stunt?"

Broadbent unknotted her black scarf, setting her hair free. She nonchalantly unbuttoned her light sweater, and she answered him. "I wanted to greet you well." A little gold crucifix hung in the hollow of her throat.

Hogan's mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish's. Retaining some measure of control, he managed to choke out, "I meant this afternoon's performance—walking out in broad daylight with all the Gestapo looking for you!"

"I needed to make contact with you, to arrange this meeting, and to brief you on this mission." Her voice was melodic, with an amused undertone. "One of my pet theories is that the best place to hide is right under someone's nose. So many people ignore the obvious."

She raised a black eyebrow. "And since you are less than observant this evening, I should like to direct your attention to the fact that I hardly look like the middle-aged Lt. Col. Schmidl." Not an ounce of gray corrupted her black, shoulder-length hair. "It is amazing what a good dye job and seven months at home can do for you. I've gained a stone1, thanks to Angharad."

"All right, so you've changed enough to keep me from recognizing you until you were under my nose. I doubt that'll be enough to save you from the Gestapo." He moved over to lean against a table. He sighed as he stared into the darkness a moment before returning his gaze to the diminutive, but now svelte, British major. "Whose bright idea was it to send you back to Germany, Miri? Every Gestapo agent from Paris to Berlin has got orders to be on the lookout for you. If they catch you…."

He didn't have to continue. They both knew—and she better than he—that those animals would not be gentle with her. She would more than likely die of the experience, but God knew what she'd tell them before she did.

She broke the oppressive silence. "That's a definite concern, my Robin." He cocked an eyebrow at her pet name for him, a standard English diminutive for Robert, but said nothing. "But as I was trying to say before you began your sermon, I've created an identity which fits the assignment very well."

"Ah, yes, that. Just what is the assignment? London was positively cryptic about that." He pushed his hair back. "Why do I have the feeling that the brass hasn't made up its feeble mind about it yet?"

All trace of humor had left Broadbent. "That one I'll have to concede. This mission is subject to change." She snorted. "I didn't liked the idea overmuch when I first heard it, but London's given me great discretion in approaching Auverne."

"Marvelous."

"Who said it was a convenient war?" She spied the coffeepot. "Someone was very thoughtful."

"Sgt. Kinchloe," he said as he reached for a cup.

After taking a slug of the strong brew, she launched into her explanation. "I'm here in Hammelburg as Marie-Jacques Duval, cabaret singer, born and raised in St. Mâlo, Brittany. Since I speak French with a Welsh accent, the Breton cover makes sense because Welsh and Breton are linguistically close." She paused to let that sink in.

"Mlle. Duval is 28, is utterly indiscriminate in her associations because she seeks fame and fortune. Political affiliations are meaningless to her. Her last engagement was in a sordid little club in Pigalle that even Auverne, with his low taste for playing with second-rate singers and actresses, wouldn't have frequented." She took another swig of coffee. "I've established myself at the Hauserhof in town. I've been there a week, and I have landed a 3 month engagement, singing 5 nights a week. Pity you missed my act, my Robin. I think you'd've liked it."

Hogan had been giving her a serious assessment during her layout of her identity. So far, it seemed to fit the bill. "Okay, you've got an identity. Do you have a plan, or are you just singing for your supper?"

She ignorec the sarcasm and answered the question. "The Allies, if all goes as expected, should take Paris by the end of the month. Auverne is important because he's working on something secret—London suspects a genuinely long-range rocket--that might delay or prevent that. That's why he's here building a factory. For the moment, the plan is to ingratiate myself with Auverne, gain his confidence, and pull as much information out of him as possible—about all his nefarious operations. The factory lasts only until it is ready to go into operation. But that's your mission. And after that, who knows?" She shrugged.

"We'll think of something," he snorted. He rested his chin on thumb and forefinger. "I assume you can actually sing or are you going to growl your way through?"

She hummed a moment before singing softly, "There'll be bluebirds, over the white cliffs of Dover/Tomorrow, just you wait and see./There'll be love and laughter/and peace ever after/Tomorrow when the world is free.'" Her voice was pure; the melody, accurate. "Vera Lynn, I'm not, but I do all right."

A slight smile played around his lips, even as he returned to business. "How do you plan to make contact? According to Klink, he'll be here," Hogan looked at his watch, "later today. Auverne will be trying to get camp guards for the factory. And undoubtedly, Klink will invite our pigeon to dinner." Hogan smirked. "A dinner by LeBeau—always a good way to suck up to important visitors."

Her eyes lit up. "Good. See what you can do to get Klink to mention the new French singer to Auverne. It should whet his appetite."

"LeBeau can always drop a word to Auverne."

Broadbent wagged a slim finger at Hogan. "The only thing Louis LeBeau is going to drop to Auverne is a plate of poisoned Chateaubriand." She yawned. "With regard to you—you're my liaison with London. Weekly contact should suffice, but do not send the same man twice and vary the days. Try to keep it to the hotel. If I am unavailable, if you have to contact me outside the hotel, my apartment is right around the corner from the club. 215 Martinstraße 7."

"And right across the street from Gestapo headquarters." Real anger rode under his words. "Do you have a death wish?"

Wearily, she leaned against a wall. "Oh, very well, Robin. What is the matter with you?"

He sprang forward, his voice raw with emotion. "What's wrong with me? Here you are, back in Germany on a deep cover mission. And a dangerous, open-ended one at that…."

"And you don't want me here."

He closed his eyes while pinching the bridge of his nose. "No," he admitted. "I'd be a lot happier if you were in England."

She shot back with equal intensity. "And I'D be a lot happier if _you_ were in England, my Robin."

"My mission is here, Miri."

"And so is mine," she fumed, fixing him with a steady gaze.

Slowly, he turned away from her, took a deep breath, and muttered, "You're the most frustrating woman…."

"Because I won't stay home and wait for you to come back to me? That's not me, my Robin, and you know it." She moved to him, reached up and touched his shoulder.

He swallowed hard. "You don't make this easy." He looked down on her; his hand cupped her cheek, tilting her head up towards him. "I love you, Miriam. I want you safe."

"Your need and desire to protect me is conflict with my need and desire to live my own life, make my own choices." She gazed into his face. "How would you like it if I asked YOU to go home and fly a desk for the rest of the war?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I would be seeking to protect MY LOVE from harm."

"It's not the same."

"Because you're a man. Ah, the double standard. If MY asking _you_ to retreat to safety," she placed a small hand over his heart, "is ridiculous, then pray tell me, why is the reverse not equally true?"

"Because it isn't, Miri." His voice hardened, warning her that this discussion was closed.

"Answered with commendable logic, my Robin."

HH HH HH

A large black staff car drove into Stalag 13. The men were confined to barracks, but that didn't stop Sgts. Carter and Kinchloe from monitoring the situation. Carter, on the periscope in the sink, watched the rotund General Burkhalter and an equally portly, but shorter, man emerge from the car. Klink greeted them effusively and ushered them into his office. Carter yelled to his counterpart, "You're on, Kinch."

The African-American radioman plugged in the coffeepot. Klink's voice came through loud and staticky. The sergeant from the phone company gave LeBeau a dirty look. "Must you use this thing for an actual coffeepot?"

The Frenchman looked wounded. "I didn't. Colonel Hogan must have used it when he needed an immediate transfusion."

Kinch raised an eyebrow at LeBeau. "I doubt that."

Carter remarked, "It's convenient to blame the colonel since he's not here." The oddity struck the chemist. "Speaking of that, where is he?"

"Gone fishing. Left right after roll call with Newkirk. Now can we get back to business?"

The colonel had left them—meaning Kinch in particular--with the strict orders to get down everything they could concerning Auverne's operation. LeBeau had already been volunteered for chef duty—with explicit instructions not to poison Auverne. After all, Hogan had predicted, he would be dining with Klink and company, and as he told his chef, he didn't feel like expiring somewhere between the fish and the soufflé.

The men had missed all of the obsequious pleasantries. Just as well. They'd heard it all before. "Kommandant Klink, let me come directly to zee point," an unctuous voice crooned. There was a hint of a lisp lurking in the background. "I would be obliged if you would provide guards for my factory and a place to store materiel until we ave our own facilities."

"Well, Monsieur Auverne, I don't know. We are spread pretty thin here at Stalag 13. And I must maintain security. This after all is the toughest…"

"…prisoner of war camp in all of Germany. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13," chorused the men in Hogan's office.

"Klink," snapped Burkhalter,"you'll render Monsieur Auverne all assistance. His mission is vitally important to the war effort." Burkhalter sighed, and a glass landed heavily on the desk. "What I am about to tell you is top secret. It does not go out of this room."

Carter looked at Kinch and LeBeau. "Are we out of the room?" His face was completely deadpan. His companions ignored him.

"General, you honor me." They imagined the thin chest puffing out with self-importance.

"Oh, shut up, Klink, and listen. Monsieur Auverne is working on the V-3, which flies further and carries twice the destructive power of the V-2, which we haven't even unleashed yet. The object with the new rocket is to hit the United States. The Americans have thus far been mostly immune to the war. They won't be so eager to continue the war if we repeatedly bomb their eastern seaboard."

Klink was silent, as were his eavesdroppers. "Wait till the colonel hears this," remarked Carter in wonder.

"Incroyable," muttered LeBeau. Kinch just nodded.

"So you zee de importance of my work, mon colonel." Hearing that oily lisp made the guys at the coffeepot giggle. He sounded so unbelievable.

"Whatever you require, Monsieur Auverne, is yours. May I offer the services of my French chef this evening, sir?"

LeBeau closed his eyes and shook his head. "Klink's French chef! C'est trop ridicule!"

Auverne responded hesitantly. "That would be delightful, mon colonel, but 'e would 'ave to be supervithed carefully. I am deathly afraid of poison."

"Absolument," hissed the Free Frenchman.

"Easy enough, Monsieur Auverne. We shall simply invite the senior POW officer to dinner. Unless I am very much mistaken, Corporal LeBeau will not poison Colonel Hogan." They could hear Burkhalter salivating as he spoke.

"Touché, mon colonel," Louis sighed with regret as Kinch unplugged the coffeepot. The tall sergeant looked at his buddy with real understanding.

They started to leave Hogan's office but were met by the colonel coming in. Their commanding officer stood before them barefooted with trousers and sleeves rolled to the knees and elbows. He handed LeBeau several freshly caught fish. "Dinner's on me, gentlemen. Newkirk's out front with some more."

Hogan glanced meaningfully at Kinch who gave him the report. Hogan whistled silently.

Newkirk was sitting at the table nursing a cup of tea and a cigarette. There were more fish spread before him. LeBeau gathered them up.

Carter asked, "Are you all right, Peter?"

"No, I'm not," the Englishman replied tartly and emphatically. "I ruddy 'ate fishin'. Absolutely borin'. And the colonel makin' all that blinkin' noise. Singin' 'e was."

"I didn't know the colonel could sing."

"'E can't, mate. That's me point. I reckon the Gestapo was too afraid to approach, not 'aving any big game guns." He shot a disgusted look toward Hogan's office. "'E gets this way every bloody summer."

"And every bloody summer, you wish for the immediate return of winter." LeBeau smirked at Newkirk while mimicking him.

"Absolutely, mate. Anything to settle 'im down." He frowned at the fish now hanging from the rafter above the stove. "Gawd, I 'ate fish."

* * *

1 A stone is an old British unit of measurement. 1 stone 14 pounds. 


	2. Angels 2

Colonel Hogan walked into Klink's quarters wearing his Class As and a small, noncommittal smile. All his senses were on full alert. Auverne, from Kinchloe's thorough briefing, sounded nasty enough. And the V-3 was truly frightening. The thought of one of those things landing in his mother's living room left him numb. And the effect on the American civilian population was something Hogan couldn't predict. Shock for sure, but would they be as tough as the British during the Blitz? He didn't want to find out.

General Burkhalter stood up and greeted Hogan cordially. "So good to see you, Colonel."

"Thank you, general." The general's bonhomnie always raised hackle-raising, always left Hogan wondering what he was up to.

"May I introduce M. Jean-Marie Auverne? Monsieur Auverne, Colonel Robert Hogan, United States Army Air Corps."

"And a prisoner of war."

"Nobody's perfect, monsieur." He accepted the schnapps poured for him by Burkhalter.

"A tamed prisoner," Klink added.

"Oh, how convenient! Shall we zee 'ow tame 'e is?" A malicious twinkle lit Auverne's light brown eyes. Hogan's nerves went taut. "So tell me, colonel, what would you think of a weapon that could be launched from Germany yet strike d'east coast of America?"

"Could you possibly take out Philadelphia? I once spent a week there. It was a dump, and I hated the place. Losing it would be good thing."

"I was thinking more along ze lines of Bridgeport, Connecticut as a target." He watched closely for any reaction from Hogan and saw none. "It is your home town, n'est-ce pas?" The double chin shook slightly.

"Nah. Bridgeport's too small, too unimportant to waste good ordinance on. You want something splashy. Philly would make a better target." Hogan shot a quick look at Burkhalter, figuring the general had given the Frenchman access to the files on him.

"Do you think zo, colonel? I think Bridgeport would be ideal—precisely because it is small and unimportant. Except to you. Of course, your maman lives there. Would you be upset if she were killed?"

Hogan didn't appreciate being taunted this way, but two could play this game. "Find me a man who doesn't love his mother, and I'll show you an unnatural man."

Stung, Auverne retorted, "I do not love my mother."

"I rest my case."

Klink took the entrance of Sgt. Carter with filled plates as a heaven-sent diversion. "Ah," he enthused, rubbing hands together, "dinner is served." He directed his guests to the table. He placed Col. Hogan directly across from Auverne.

At that distance, Hogan figured he couldn't strangle the industrialist.

HH HH HH

Carter, who'd caught most of the unpleasant confrontation, returned to the kitchen angry and indignant. He whispered intensely to Newkirk and LeBeau, "Do you believe this guy? He's in there baiting Colonel Hogan about blowing up his home town."

LeBeau insulted Auverne under his breath in French, while Newkirk responded in English, "'E's a rotter, Andrew, no doubt o'that."

"I just don't know how the colonel's managed to keep from slugging the guy. Especially after the cracks about his mom." Carter's decency boiled over.

LeBeau said, without looking up, "Auverne is a coward and a bully. It's his way of exerting power over the colonel."

"It's still pretty awful, if you ask me."

"Oui, but with guys like Auverne, who are so small, it's the only way to be important."

"Yeah, particularly with that lisp of 'is, which makes it all sound so bloody insane. 'E's got to make up somewhere."

Still mumbling, Carter took out more wine to the diners. Newkirk muttered to his mate, "Pity the colonel won't let you poison the blighter." LeBeau nodded.

HH HH HH

At the table, Burkhalter and Klink tried to carry the conversation throughout dinner, but failed miserably. Auverne and Hogan verbally lunged and parried, but they confined themselves to monosyllabic responses to direct questions.

Hogan wondered, picking absently at his food, if Klink would ever get around to mentioning the new French singer. Finally, after a few moments of blessed silence, he prodded Klink. "Herr Kommandant, do you think General Burkhalter would like to know about the new cabaret singer? From what you've told me, she sounds like an absolute knockout."

Burkhalter, a known sucker for a pretty face and trim figure, visibly perked up. So did Auverne. "Yes, Klink. I would like to know."

"I've heard, sir, that this singer, who's French, Monsieur Auverne, just recently arrived in Hammelburg."

"With a name like Marie-Jacques Duval, "Hogan threw in, deliberately butchering the name with American vowels, "what else would she be?"

"You have an appreciation for Frenchwomen?"

There was a salacious air about the man, and for one, wicked moment, Hogan delighted in knowing that Miri would deliver his comeuppance. She was definitely more than the man could handle.

He responded, with a wide, lascivious grin splitting his face, "Oh, yes, indeed. Especially if what Colonel Klink has told me about her voice and looks are true."

"Apparently, Mademoiselle Duval looks and sounds like Edith Piaf," Klink added.

"Little and delicate, like zee Sparrow, yet with a great big voice?" Auverne closed his eyes in anticipation. He opened them again, a different light in them now. "I must zee and 'ear Mademoiselle Duval. Where is she?"

Hogan realized that Auverne was caught—hook, line and sinker. Klink was just relieved to have a safe conversation topic. "At the Hauserhof, Monsieur Auverne."

The industrialist turned back to Hogan. "And 'ow long 'ave you gone sans une femme, mon colonel?"

"Longer than I care to think about." He grinned piratically. Matching Auverne had so far tended to blunt his horns.

"And do you not feel deprived of feminine companionship? I could not zo exist."

Hogan almost slipped and said, glad to hear it, but stopped himself. Rather, he remarked, "Of course, I do, but what soldier doesn't, these days?" He looked meaningfully at Burkhalter. "Don't you miss Frau Burkhalter's charms, general?" If he was behind this, he could pay for it, thought Hogan darkly.

The general, embarrassed, neglected to answer, for Carter and Newkirk chose that precise moment to enter to whisk plates away and lay dessert and coffee before the guests. Both were consumed quickly and in silence. When they were done, Klink, like a good host, did make the effort to suggest the port and walnuts, but Burkhalter declined for both himself and Auverne. They made as dignified a retreat as possible.

No sooner had the door closed behind the portly Frenchman than Klink poured himself and Hogan a generous measure of the heavy, fortified wine.

"My deepest apologies, Colonel Hogan, for a dreadful evening. There was no need for any of it, and I'll not subject you or LeBeau to that man again."

Hogan, distracted by Klink's graciousness, couldn't figure out if Burkhalter had been embarrassed by Auverne's nastiness or his failure to rattle him. Klink's next comment pulled him back to reality.

"I'd sooner sit down to dinner with Major Hochstetter."

"So would I."

HH HH HH

Looking like a very dignified, middle-aged German civilian, Hogan rapped on the door of 215 Martinstraße 7. The door opened a crack while a dark eye made a quick reconnoitering. Then, it opened wide to admit Hogan who entered briskly. He stopped short when he realized what Miriam Broadbent was wearing--a pink velvet negligée with copious marabou feathers at collar, cuffs, and hem. The confection swallowed her.

"Miri…?" he started, before a feather got up his nose, causing him to wonder if he were going to sneeze.

She held up a hand and remarked drily, "I know. I look preposterous." She bent down to a small table and poured a modest glass of wine for Hogan. She handed it to him.

"You look like a little girl playing dress up with her mother's clothes."

"It's a gift from Auverne. And that should tell you something." She made disgusted noises. "And speaking of the devil, he was just here."

"So, you've finally made real contact."

For the last two weeks it had seemed Auverne was never going to do more than nose around Marie-Jacques Duval. The two previous contacts with his men had produced little more than local gossip and Newkirk's frank admiration for her as the greatest actress since Sybil Thorndike. LeBeau had been more critical--she sounded nothing like the Sparrow—not enough growled, rolled 'r's—and was more a cantatrice than a chanteuse. Now, it seemed, a breakthrough had been made—a good thing since London had been getting quite nervous.

She threw her wine back in one gulp. "Yes, he's decided I'm worth his time and attention."

"Lucky you."

She motioned him to a worn but still decent settee. A twisted smile made a mockery of her generous mouth. They sat down, their knees touching which sent an electric shock through them both.

"I certainly haven't wasted mine. Once he deigned to be my patron—and I groveled sufficiently—Auverne became quite talkative. With a little lubrication, he actually bragged about his connections in the French black market and what he could get me." Her hand swept back toward the tiny kitchen which Hogan assumed was well-provisioned, even as food rationing tightened. "He's really quite dreadful in his cups, but I did manage to get three names: Henri Orland, Etienne Benet, and Marcel Jospin."

"Not bad." He committed the names to memory. "What else?"

"The factory goes on apace. It should be operational in 2 to 3 weeks, but Auverne was whinging about German-caused delays. It seems your Colonel Klink has been only as helpful as he's had to be."

"For once, the kommandant has chosen to have some spine. He's decided that not everybody is worth cultivating." Hogan had watched with real respect Klink's aloofness from Auverne. "The time frame matches what we've gotten from the guards who'd sooner not be there."

She leaned back against the settee, nonchalantly pulling the curtain aside to peer outside. "Last but not least, I managed to divest Auverne of his secret Swiss bank account numbers." A feather-swathed hand held out a tiny slip of paper. "That should allow General de Gaulle access to those accounts, especially if he leans on M. Orland, Auverne's principal agent." The curtain dropped back into place.

"Well done, Miri. Now you can clear out."

"Ah, no. As much as I would like to, I can't. Auverne is a wealth of information. I've only broken the surface of his black market activities. Furthermore, he may have agents on de Gaulle's staff and certainly in the Resistance. THAT I want to crack."

"Don't push your luck."

"Words of wisdom, Robin, but you know as well as I do that I can't leave until London recalls me or my cover gets blown here."

"I'd rather not think about the latter, if you don't mind."

He'd been trying to concentrate on the job at hand and then getting out without fuss, but his desire for her got the better of him, particularly as she pulled closer to him. He inhaled her perfume. It went straight to his head.

She whispered, "I want you to take off your clothes, leave them in a trail leading to the bedroom, and get in bed. Make it look like we've been up to something really wild." A finger pointed the way.

Hogan had been propositioned before, but never like this. "What!?" he asked incredulously.

"The Gestapo have surrounded the building, and they should be starting their search soon. Captain Zimbrod commands over there, and he starts at the top and works down. When they knock on the door, I'll answer, looking quite disheveled. They'll see me in a negligée, your trail of clothes, and if they look, your body in the bed. They will see sufficient evidence to suggest that the cabaret singer isn't too chaste. After all, most people see what they want to see."

"Where the hell do you get your theories, Miri?" he asked, ripping off his tie. The suit jacket and the white shirt followed in short order.

"Sherlock Holmes," she responded. She mussed her hair and made the negligée appear hastily thrown on.

Not a moment too soon. Although expected, the heavy pounding on the apartment door made her jump. She rushed to answer it, and one part of the wide collar of feathers slipped down her arm, revealing bare shoulder.

"Bon soir, mes officiers," she said.

"Pardon me, but we are looking for an Underground radio operator." He made to come in.

She didn't bar his way. "Be my guest."

The Gestapo agent took in the trail of clothes to the bedroom and followed it. Miriam dashed to the half-open door. "Please, do not disturb M. Auverne."

The young man gently pushed it open to reveal trousers, shoes, and socks scattered on the floor. A pair of boxer shorts hung from a bedpost. The bedclothes were rumpled, and a man sprawled, completely spent, beneath them. A bare foot was partially uncovered. The Gestapo agent made his way through the rest of the tiny apartment.

He clicked his heels. "Guten abend, Fraulein."

She closed the door behind him, latched it, and sagged in sheer relief.

Recovering herself, Miriam began to pick up Hogan's discarded clothing, neatly placing the items in a pile on the back of the stuffed chair in the bedroom. She plucked the underwear from the bedpost and dangled them in front of his eyes. "What inspiration, my Robin." Her voice was sultry.

He rolled over and tried to snatch his shorts from her. She was too quick for him, withdrawing the desired garment from his reach. Making sure the bedclothes covered him, he said, rather tightly, "Do you mind?"

"Yes, actually I do." She dropped them with the rest of his clothes--well out of reach.

He sighed, figured he was going to have to negotiate with her to get his clothes back. Instead, he was enormously surprised to watch her slip the pink negligée from her shoulders and leave it on the floor. His eyes widened in expectation of her nakedness, but he had to do a double-take. The knee-length blue silk nightgown clung revealingly. She slipped under the covers, into bed, next to him. His heart was pounding. He wondered if she could hear it.

"The Gestapo will have the building surrounded until they arrest the radio operator. That will be well into the wee small hours of the morning. How long will it take you to get back to camp?"

"About 30 to 40 minutes, give or take." He found it hard to think about anything but her.

"Good. I'll set the alarm for 4am."

She reached across him, brushing his chest with her silk-clad body. When she pulled back, he put his arms around her, bringing her closer her to him. They kissed—repeatedly and with increasing intensity. Her fingers traced the outlines of his face, ran through his thick, dark hair, while his hands trailed down her back, along her hips. Without distracting himself from her, Hogan reached up and turned out the light.

He murmured huskily, "I don't think you're going to need this," and slid the nightgown over her head. It landed on the floor beside the pink negligée.

HH HH HH

Several hours later, Hogan awoke with a start. It took him a second to realize where he was. Miri spooned against him, still asleep. He brushed stray hair out of her face—a lovely face, now peaceful and calm, but clearly showing the force of character behind it. Emotion swept through him. One thing was certain: he loved her. Slowly, he rolled over on his back, wondering when and why. After a few minutes, it came to him--her fierce independence, her quick intelligence, her amazing combination of strength and vulnerability, of which she'd shown him both. She would never cling. It was a love based on trust and respect. He could talk to her freely, equally, without pulling any punches.

Heaving a deep sigh, Hogan thought about their earlier argument: maybe she was right. Maybe the double standard WAS ridiculous.

Miri interrupted his deep thoughts by turning over, pillowing her head on his shoulder. She unconsciously flung an arm across his chest, and he encircled her shoulders and snuffled her hair, whispering, "Where do we go from here, my darling?"

HH HH HH

Maurice Dubois, formerly of the French Air Force and now of the Resistance, listened to his fellow partisan, Solange Jospin, with increasing agitation. In finality, the short, spare, Frenchwoman with cropped strawberry-blonde hair, spat, "Auverne is dabbling with a cabaret singer, name of Marie-Jacques Duval of St. Malô. Apparently, she is quite taken with the traitor."

"She'll be taken, all right, Solange. A collaborator is a collaborator." He pondered the situation a moment. "Anything else?"

"No, Maurice, except that Duval is not particularly exclusive. She was visited, all Sunday night, by some middle-aged, self-important German civilian."

"Charmant." He threw down his cigarette in disgust and picked up his rifle. "I want Auverne. Start thinking about a plan to capture him."

"And execute him?"

"Mais bien sûr. I'm going to see Louis LeBeau. I don't want any of them to get in the way of our operation."

"You just don't want to clash with Colonel Hogan."

"I'd rather not," he admitted as he left their encampment.

HH HH HH

Carter met Dubois at the tree stump and led him in. "I'll get Louis," he called over his shoulder as he went up to the barracks.

Dubois helped himself to some coffee. It tasted the way French coffee should: good and strong. Definitely of Louis' making. As much as Dubois liked the other men, particularly the steady Sgt. Kinchloe, and admired Colonel Hogan for his cleverness, it would be better if they stayed out of this. LeBeau was another matter. He was French--he knew what Vichy was.

"Bon soir, Maurice," said LeBeau, interrupting Dubois' thoughts.

"Bon soir, Louis. Comment ça va?"

"Comme ci, comme ça. Et toi?"

"Bien. Louis, est-ce que tu sais que Jean-Marie Auverne est en Hammelburg?"

"Oui." LeBeau had an inkling where this was going and was not liking it one bit. Too many feelings would be in conflict.

"Doesn't that bother you? Don't you want to do something about that?" Dubois' speech sounded like machine-gun fire.

LeBeau gave a small sigh. Of all the times for this. He'd just reconciled himself to Major Broadbent's plan, and here came Dubois taking his original line. Mon Dieu! what next?

"Yes, it does bother me, but we ARE doing something about it. We are pumping information out of him. We've already broken into his black market connections and his Swiss bank accounts. We're planning on blowing up his factory in a couple of days. Did you know it is supposed to be building V-3 rockets which will be aimed at the US? What more do you want?" Louis, of course, knew the answer.

"This is all very well and good, Louis, but it does not replace execution."

"Does it mean nothing to you? General de Gaulle wants him executed, too, but he wants the information first. And the big brass in London haven't decided whether or not to try him publicly after the Allies take Paris. AND that should be very soon."

LeBeau knew both Hogan and Broadbent—Madame as he now thought of her—were frustrated and angry about London's indecision.

"I don't care about the brass in London. They don't know about Vichy firsthand. I do. Ma petite Alys." He made a rude noise. "My band and I are going to capture and execute Auverne." There was a hard set to Dubois' face and tone that Louis didn't like. "And his mistress," he added harshly, menacingly.

"You can't do that, Maurice," Louis cried. "It goes against orders." That it would destroy working relations between Hogan's men and his band was clearly irrelevant to Dubois. If he pulled this stunt, Louis knew, Hogan would never work with the man again.

"I'm not interested. If you won't help me, and it is obvious you won't, then just stay out of the way."

Louis was hurt. The underlying, unspoken charge of being less a Frenchman cut deeply. "Colonel Hogan is going to be very angry." Dubois simply shrugged. "Leave Marie-Jacques Duval alone. She works for us." Louis was afraid to say any more. Let Dubois think she was Resistance, too.

"Bah," Dubois snorted as he turned on his heel and left.

LeBeau sat in Kinch's spot behind the wireless for some time thinking. He had no idea how long he'd sat there before his buddies Newkirk and Kinchloe came looking for him. After taking in the little corporal's glum expression, the Englishman spoke first. "What's wrong, Louis?"

"Dubois is planning on executing Auverne. He didn't elaborate, but it will be soon."

"Blimey!"

"Madame is included in that plan."

"Did you tell him what was going on?" Kinch couldn't believe this. "And why do you call her 'Madame'? It's not just short for Mme. Defarge?"

Overlapping, Newkirk said, "You're goin' to 'ave to tell Colonel 'Ogan."

LeBeau looked heavenward before wailing plaintively and gesticulating excitedly, "Yes, I told Dubois the general order of business. Yes, I know I'm going to have to tell le colonel. Do you have any idea how upset he's going to be? Not just for the screw-up in plans, which will be bad enough, but also personally?" Solemn heads nodded in agreement.

"He really loves her, and that is why I call her Madame." LeBeau had seen Hogan when he'd come in right before rollcall the other morning. Many things had become obvious to the Frenchman, for the colonel had been completely unguarded.

They were all silent a moment before Newkirk commented sorrowfully, "Louis, me little mate, I don't envy you."

"You don't envy me?! I don't envy me. How would you like to be the one to break the colonel's heart?"

Kinch made calming motions. "Sois calme. It's not broken yet. We may still get Madame out of the line of fire." He was silent a moment then spoke again. "The colonel's gone to bed. He tired himself out today with exercise. Lots of fresh air and sunshine. But still, you should to go tell him now."

"Très bien, très bien," Louis groaned.

"Would you like the whiskey and the cigarette before you face the firing squad?" LeBeau gave the Englishman the dirtiest look before stomping off to wake the colonel.


	3. Angels 3

Hogan had been anything but pleased when LeBeau had told him about Dubois' plans, such as they were. By 5 o'clock in the morning, an hour before rollcall, when he roused his men, it was evident from the puffy, stubbly face, that he'd gotten no sleep. The men tried to shake themselves awake, yet Hogan snapped, "Get the lead out and gather 'round."

"Carter, I want you to make up 4 large, delayed-action charges with precision timers. That factory goes up in three days, as scheduled."

The chemist got out his "Yes, sir" in between yawns. He was oblivious to his CO's frown.

Hogan went on. "The rest of this operation hinges on that factory going up on time." Carter nodded. "Because when it goes, everybody is going to be here—Auverne, the major, Dubois, everybody."

Kinch asked nervously, "And how are we going to manage that, colonel?"

"Simple. Newkirk and I are going fishing this morning…."

"Gawd, not again!" the Englishman squawked.

"Yes, again. Except this time we're fishing for Dubois. We're going to convince him to do it our way."

Newkirk grumped, "And what's our way?"

Hogan took a deep breath before admitting, "Dubois is going to get Auverne." He held up his hand for silence to finish. "But he has to come to Stalag 13 to get him. Auverne will bring his cabaret singer here for a private recital for Kommandant Klink. Dubois, as Vichy Security Police, comes in, arrests Auverne, and leaves. Major Broadbent stays."

"You're going to give Auverne to Dubois? What about orders? London's not going to like this," Kinch remarked.

"This is the joy of command." There was more than a trace of bitterness. "As I see it, there are 3 possibilities: I give him Auverne, I let him take Auverne AND BROADBENT, or I tear up 2 good outfits trying to stop him. None of these choices is attractive. With this plan, improvised as it is, the situation is more controlled, more of the mission is fulfilled, and our losses—specifically Major Broadbent—are reduced. I hope. The major knows double agents existe in the Resistance. Possibly with Dubois, and since we don't know all of his band, there is no way to tell."

"We could bloody ask."

"And do you think, after last night, he'd tell us?" LeBeau reflected sourly. He cradled his head in his hands. "And I told Dubois that Marie-Jacques Duval worked for us."

Hogan felt for the Frenchman. Conflict of loyalties was always painful. He knew from personal experience. Gently, he reminded LeBeau, "But you didn't give away her real identity. Even if Auverne finds out about Marie-Jacques, which I doubt, he is more likely to take care of her himself. At worst, he'll turn her over to Vichy, but that will take some time."

"Why do you doubt Auverne'll find out, mon colonel?"

"Because, frankly, I don't think Dubois believed you last night." At the skeptical faces, Hogan added, "To paraphrase a friend, people believe what they want to believe."

"What about Madame? Is she going to go along with this?"

"Major Broadbent," chimed Kinchloe, quickly clarifying things for everybody.

"I don't see why she shouldn't. Her mission has been blown up. She'll recognize this for damage control. Certainly, she's important to this, for she's the one who has to persuade Auverne to show her off before Klink. That should be easy, especially if she points out to him the delicious bonus of rubbing my nose in his possession of her."

"What if she balks?" asked Kinch.

"Well, if worse comes to worst, I can always make it a direct order. I do outrank her." From his flat tone, the men knew the colonel was loathe to do that. It wasn't part of his general command style. He preferred to ask, particularly when it came to something this dangerous.

"Man, this is sure going to be a rough one," Carter said to no one in particular.

"It sure is, mate, and I don't much fancy it, neither," added Newkirk.

Hogan's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I am not wild about this, either, but I relish explaining to Allied High Command why this mission fell apart and how we lost a top operative even less." That silenced the grousing. "Added to that, there is this: if Major Broadbent _is_ turned over to Vichy Security Police _or_ their friends the Gestapo, we can certainly kiss this operation—and our lives--good-bye."

"Not to mention she'll be stone-cold dead." The finality of Newkirk's comment chilled the men.

LeBeau looked up at his CO. "I volunteer to go tell Madame the plan."

Hogan cocked his head, looked as if he were going to say something, then thought better of it. After a moment of silence, he said softly, "All right, LeBeau. If she gives you any static, tell her I'll meet her at Pieterskirche at 8pm tonight."

"D'accord."

HH HH HH

Hogan entered Pieterskirche with a heavy and exhausted heart. Nothing had gone well this day. It had been Murphy's Law in action. He'd practically had to browbeat Dubois into compliance with his plan. It had taken a combination of cajolery and threats, including a post-war court martial for Dubois, for him to agree. His second-in-command, Solange Jospin—a cat with Titian-colored gamine-cut hair--had earned Hogan's ire and suspicion, first, by her intransigence and second, by her eagerness to eliminate Duval as well. For once, Newkirk's penchant for playing around with the ladies had paid off, for he'd found out her name. That clinched it for Hogan. Then, to add to all his other problems, including a bone-weariness he'd not felt in years, Miri had decided to give LeBeau A LOT of static. Now, he was going to have sweet talk her into this operation.

God help me, he thought tiredly, I don't have time for this. He dipped his fingers into the basin of holy water and crossed himself before walking down the aisle. He took a place in a pew. Miri had yet to show. Will I even recognize her?

He took in the baroque architecture and painting before his eyes fixed on the ornate, gilt crucifix on the altar. Gazing at it in apparent devotion, he seemed the picture of piety to anybody who might pass by. The crucified Christ momentarily held his attention, and he prayed swiftly for a quick conclusion to this fiasco with a minimum loss of life. He didn't change expression as Miriam slid into the pew in front of him, scarf-covered head ostensibly bent in prayer.

"What is going on, Robin," she whispered and leaned back against the pew, her open breviary and rosary in hand.

Hogan blinked in disbelief. "Didn't LeBeau make that clear to you?" He bent his head as a priest went by. "Your cover's been blown."

"Not necessarily. If Dubois can be persuaded or ordered out of this mad scheme of his…."

"Not a chance," he hissed. "It took all my efforts to get him to agree to my plan. I had to make all sorts of threats. He wasn't going to give on this issue."

The major was silent a moment. "Well, this certainly buggers our operation, doesn't it?"

"It gets worse, Miri. Dubois doesn't know it, but I think his exec is one of Auverne's people. Her name is Solange Jospin."

She almost dropped her breviary in shock. Her voice quavered as she confirmed his suspicions. "Solange is Marcel Jospin's sister. And we know he's in with Auverne. They've got to be in this together." Barely audible to Hogaan's ears, she quickly went through an Ave and a Pater Noster. "This really is turning into a disaster."

"It doesn't have to," he emphasized, "so long as we retain some measure of control over it. Which is why I want you to persuade Auverne to arrange the private recital. We have a greater chance of keeping you out of Dubois' and Jospin's hands at Stalag 13, and we can make disappear faster."

"What about Auverne? There is still so much to be gained from him."

"It would've been nice to get all the information, but that's not going to happen now." Hogan didn't like the way the priest kept eyeing him from the votive candles. He wished he still had his rosary. It would've come in very handy right now. "We've got to cut our losses. I'll give him up to keep you."

"Will you?"

"Look, Miriam, there are some battles that aren't worth fighting. This is one of them. Once Dubois set his mind to getting rid of Auverne, the man was done for. Do you want to end up dead or in Vichy hands?" He paused to let that sink in. "Get whatever you can get from him in 3 days, but that's it." The tone of voice brooked no contradiction.

A defeated sigh came from the pew in front. "I suppose you're right, Robin, but I do so hate scarpering with the job half done."

"No choice, Miri."

"I'll have Auverne in Klink's quarters at this time in three days. Count on it." Before he could respond, she slid out of the pew, genuflected to the altar, and left.

Hogan closed his eyes and thanked the Lord for Miriam's seeing reason. He got up and went to light a candle. After a quick prayer for all of them, he crossed himself and left by the side door.

HH HH HH

Kinch had been monitoring the switchboard all morning. At precisely 11:33am, Auverne called Klink to arrange a private evening of music for the kommandant who had yet to hear the exquisite vocal talents of Mlle. Duval. The radioman frowned at the unctuous hyperbole. Not that he wanted to insult Madame, but he figured this guy couldn't tell the difference between an engine squeal and a jazz singer. What made the sergeant sit up and take notice was Klink's steady reluctance to agree. Oh, no, thought Kinch in frustration, Klink can't wreck this operation now. He tore off his headset and hurried up to the barracks, where he nearly bowled Hogan over.

"Where's the fire, Kinch?" he asked, righting himself and his hat.

"Klink's doing a soft-shoe to avoid Auverne's company tomorrow."

"Oh, great. Why'd he have to get an attack of nobility now?" There was a desperate edge to Hogan's voice. "I'd better get over there and make sure Klink is properly inviting."

HH HH HH

Fortunately, Klink was still on the phone with Auverne when Hogan waltzed in. Klink looked up in irritation—two very annoying people, both jabbering away at him. Oh, could the Russian front be worse? he pondered silently. Covering the mouthpiece with a hand, he said, "Not now, Hogan. Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Auverne had still heard him. "C'est bon, mon colonel, "he crooned at Klink. "Invite Colonel 'Ogan. I zo want to zee his face when I bring Mlle. Duval to sing for you."

Klink cringed and thought, another evening of M. Auverne baiting Col. Hogan nearly makes me ill. Maybe, just maybe, I'll make sure Hogan comes armed. Donnewetter! What am I thinking? There will be no private recital. "M. Auverne, as I have been trying to tell you…."

"Oh, is that M. Auverne? What a nice fellow."

Klink stared at Hogan in stupefaction. Had the American lost his mind?

"Are you having him over for dinner tomorrow? That'll be a treat for you."

Now, Klink was sure Hogan needed help. Conversationally, he remarked to the aberrant American, "No, he's bringing Mlle. Duval here for a private recital."

"That'll be lovely. What time should I be there? 8pm?"

With eyes glued on Hogan, Klink heard himself surrender to Auverne's importuning. "I'll be delighted to see you and Mlle. Duval at 8 tomorrow evening."

"Magnifique!" responded Auverne. "A bientôt, mon colonel."

As if in slow-motion, Klink watched himself replace the receiver. He looked up at Hogan who was chuckling to himself. Klink found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Hogan? Have you forgotten that dreadful evening we spent with Auverne only a couple of weeks ago?"

"Not at all, Kommandant," came the smiling, cheerful reply.

Folding his arms over his chest, Klink looked suspiciously at the American officer. "You're not insane. You're up to something."

Hogan gave Klink the widest-eyed innocent routine he could. "Who me?" He snorted. "Really, Colonel, how utterly unjust." He gave the kommandant a quick, insubordinate salute, turned on his heel, and left in high dudgeon.

Klink mused aloud, "Why do I feel used?"

HH HH HH

With a confidence he didn't really feel, Hogan strode out of the barracks and over to Klink's quarters. Schultz met him at the door. "The Frenchmen and the singer are already here, Colonel Hogan." The German NCO made plain his distaste. He added, "And he thinks that woman is pretty? His taste is all in his mouth." Schultz shook his head.

"A real dog, eh, Schultz?" Although he smiled conspiratorially to the guard, he shuddered to think what disaster of an outfit Miri was wearing.

"Very short with a shrill voice and bad taste in clothes."

"Thanks for the warning."

The pilot tripped past Schultz, and the older man remarked to himself, "I'd much rather be me than him. Sentry duty is more inviting than that woman."

Even with Schultz's cautionary words, Hogan still wasn't ready for the hideous gown Miri sported. It was sea-foam green silk trimmed with a profusion of white lace and ribbons. While some blonde 16 year old with more heightMIGHT have worn this with relative ease to a prom, the dress seemed to be wearing Miri, who looked washed out and ill. No doubt another gift from Auverne.

The tiny spy gave him a discreet eye roll, as if to second his opinion.

Remembering his manners, he turned his attention to Klink. "Good evening, Herr Kommandant."

"Colonel Hogan, you remember M. Auverne…."

"How could I forget?"

Klink ignored the barb and introduced Mlle. Duval. "And this is Mlle. Marie-Jacques Duval, M. Auverne's discovery." Hogan raised an eyebrow at that loaded description.

She held out a hand. "Je suis enchantée, colonel."

Her speaking voice was about ½ an octave higher than normal. As he reluctantly kissed her hand, he hoped she wasn't going to talk like that all night. It would be worse than Auverne's needling.

The rotund Frenchman possessively put an arm around Duval/Broadbent's waist. "I am zo glad you could come, mon colonel," he lisped genially.

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." He gave a broad, knowing smile to Auverne. "So, I understand Mlle. Duval is going to sing for us?" Klink pressed a brandy snifter into Hogan's hand. He took it gratefully.

"Mais oui." Auverne turned to the singer and barked commands at her.

A muscle flexed in Hogan's cheek as he checked his temper. Klink frowned in disapproval as Duval took her place at the piano, specially brought in for the occasion.

She put her hands to the keys before Hogan asked, "Is this going to be an evening of Schubert's Lieder? If it is, skip the brandy and bring me 15 cups of coffee."

Klink and Auverne appeared indignant and insulted, but Duval ducked her head. Was she trying to keep from laughing aloud?

After 45 minutes of completely forgettable French cabaret songs, Hogan regretted his quip. After clapping politely at the end of a song, he wished he were anywhere else. The boredom was excruciating, and in complete contrast to his previous performance, Auverne was silent. Hogan didn't even have the verbal duel to keep him awake. When she launched into an a capella version of one of Edith Piaf's songs, he perked up. "Rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…." He gave her a disapproving look. "No, I regret nothing" cut six ways in this context. But even if she didn't roll her 'r's enough, she could still belt it out. Klink awoke--the bald head popped up, monocle still in place.

After the more enthusiastic clapping died away, Auverne turned to the two officers. "And, now, gentlemen, we 'ave something special for you. Marie-Jacques 'as been working on a sloppy, sentimental American song juce for you, Colonel 'Ogan."

The teeth were there--they hadn't been brought out yet. The man smiled thinly, reminding Hogan of a barracuda. Auverne nodded to Marie-Jacques.

The jazzy swing tune coming out of the piano got Hogan's attention. It sounded like a Benny Goodman song, but not one he'd heard before. She started singing—in English with a French accent. She looked right at him. "We meet, and the angels sing/The angels sing the sweetest music I ever heard./You speak, and the angels sing/Or am I reading music into every word?'"

Not bad, Hogan thought, his toe tapping in time. The softly belted middle she handled deftly, but he wished she'd stop looking at him, particularly with "…your face that I adore./You smile and the angels sing/even though it is just a gentle murmur at the start./We kiss, and the angels sing/and leave their music ringing in my heart.'" She wrapped the song after a 16 bar closing and got a very enthusiastic response.

As they all stood up, the whole building shook with the force of the explosion at the factory. Auverne sat down heavily while Hogan and Klink steadied themselves by grabbing the table in front of them. Duval was actually knocked off her feet.

Nice job, Carter, Hogan thought appreciatively.

Before they'd quite recovered from that shock, in barged Dubois with several of his band, including Jospin. They looked deadly serious in their dark coats. Auverne paled. He took them for what they were supposed to be. Dubois clicked his heels and handed Klink his papers. "Herr Oberst, I am Lt. Felice Robichaux of Vichy Security Police," he rasped.

"Herr Lieutenant," Klink responded, "what can I do for you?"

"I am here to arrest M. Jean-Marie Auverne."

The corpulent Frenchman jumped up and squealed like a stuck pig, "No, you can't do that!! I am a loyal member of Vichy. Pierre Laval est mon ami!!!"

Hogan exhaled audibly and glanced the other way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miriam surreptitiously crawling for the kitchen. He turned back to Klink. She didn't need anything to attract attention.

At that moment, trouble jumped up. Solange Jospin, looking darkly efficient, stepped over to Miriam and hauled her to her feet. "Well, if it isn't Marie-Jacques Duval, also wanted by the Security Police."

"I don't think so," Miriam muttered, giving the Frenchwoman a fine right cross to the jaw. Jospin rocked backwards. When the other woman let go, the major bolted for the kitchen and the back door.

At that moment, adding to the confusion and drawing everyone's attention away from the two women, Auverne tried to barrel through Dubois' men. He knocked two aside before being grabbed by several others. He struggled to free himself, but he was held fast.

"That was foolish, monsieur," Dubois remarked coldly. To his men, he said, "Take him away." The Frenchman turned back to Colonel Klink, "I am sorry to spoil your evening, Herr Oberst, but I have my orders. Thank you for your co-operation." He tipped his black fedora and departed. Klink looked dumfounded.

Jospin had followed Duval into the kitchen, grabbing her just as she passed through the back door. The fleeing spy tripped on her hem and fell forward. The dress ripped when Jospin pulled back. The singer/spy fell down the back steps, hitting all three, each with a heavy bounce. Lying flat on her face in the dust, she tried to overcome the disoriented, nauseated feeling sweeping over her, but couldn't. Jospin flipped her over, held a Luger on her. "Say your prayers, Duval, you're finished."

"Non, vous êtes une chienne finie," remarked LeBeau. He smacked Jospin over the head with a full bottle of wine, the contents spilling over Auverne's accomplice and Miriam Broadbent.

"What a waste of fine wine."

"For her, never. It was only a few hours old. Pure vinegar."

"Oh, jolly good." She struggled to get up and failed.

Sgt. Kinchloe picked her up while LeBeau tied up Jospin and dumped her body in the bushes for later. He looked at Kinch and made shooing motions, muttering, "Vite, vite!" He went back into the kitchen where he met Col. Hogan. Answering the unspoken question in his CO's face, "Madame is a little shaken up, but aside from that, she's should be all right. Kinch took her over to the barracks."

"Jospin?" the colonel whispered.

"Unconscious and tied up in the bushes."

"That's a nice little benefit. Let's hope she sings." LeBeau groaned at the pun. Hogan glanced behind him quickly before continuing. "Haul her over to the barracks before anybody finds her. I'll keep Klink happy for a little while." He went back into the living room.

The kommandant stood, surveying the room, chin in hand. "I do not understand what happened."

Hogan shrugged his shoulders. "I guess Auverne was playing both sides against the middle. Not a terribly bright idea."

"You're probably right." He paused a moment before adding, "I never liked that man." Klink looked right at the American and abruptly changed the subject. "You know, I could have sworn that Mlle. Duval sang that last song for you alone."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

HH HH HH

Sgt. Kinchloe gently laid Major Broadbent on the lower bunk in Colonel Hogan's office. In the short distance between Klink's quarters and the barracks, she'd lost consciousness, but when he'd put her down, her eyes opened. They focused on him. "You're in the barracks, Major. I'll get you a medic."

She sat up, looked down at herself, and realized that she was a sticky, muddy, wine and earth-stained mess. The remnants of the dress and the slip beneath were clammy against her skin. "I don't need a medic. I need a bath." She swung herself out of the bunk. "I want a basin of hot water, soap, and a sponge. Beyond that, a change of clothes."

"But major…."

"I am just a bit bruised, sergeant."

"Ma'am, you've got quite a goose-egg."

Following his gaze, she reached up to her forehead, probing gently with her fingers. She found it and yelped. "I take your point, sergeant. But at worst, it's a mild concussion." She looked pointedly at him. "Now, if I could have the hot water, please?"

"Yes, ma'am." He left, shaking his head. A few moments later, Newkirk popped in with her requests. He also produced a steaming mug of tea.

"O bless you, corporal. How'd you know I could murder a cuppa?"

"I just guessed, ma'am." With both hands, she lifted the mug and took a deep draught. The Englishman leaned toward her conspiratorially. "The colonel's pyjamas are freshly washed." Jerking his head slightly toward the locker, he gave her a quick wink before leaving her.

After washing up, she felt so much better, even if her head had started pounding. She slipped into the red pyjama jacket. The sleeves hung past her hands by a foot while the hem hit just above the knee. She rolled the sleeves back to her wrists. Weariness overtook her. Giving an enormous yawn, she adjusted the duffel bag on the bunk—clearly Robin's pillow, she noted—and tucked herself up. She was halfway to dreamland when the medic entered the room.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but Sgt. Kinchloe said you needed a medic?"

"Poppycock! What I need is sleep," she growled, thinking she'd already had this conversation.

He didn't go away. In fact, he approached and made to examine her. She raised up on an elbow, and in her best parade-ground voice, bellowed, "Be gone, sergeant." The man jumped back as if struck.

HH HH HH

Hogan entered the barracks just in time to hear the roar and to see his medic retreating in the face of overwhelming firepower. The buck sergeant turned to him, looking bewildered. "What IS it with you officers, sir? I've never a met a bunch of people more unwilling to be medically attended." Under Hogan's shocked expression, the medic bolted from the barracks.

The colonel turned to his men. "What is going on?"

Kinch, who agreed with the medic, said, "By her own admission, Madame has a mild concussion. But she just wanted a hot bath."

"And a cuppa, sir."

"So, she doesn't want to be fussed over. You should have left her alone." Unbuttoning his jacket and pulling at his tie, he headed for his office.

"Like somebody else I could mention," Kinch muttered sotto voce.

"Yeah, really," agreed Carter.

"A right pair o' bears, they are," confirmed Newkirk.

Hogan's voice rang out, startling them all. "All right, which one of you guys gave Major Broadbent my pyjamas?"

His men looked innocently back at him. Not so sotto voce, Newkirk responded, "Who else'd be wearin' 'em, 'cept the missus?"


End file.
